Leaps and Sparks

An Interview with John Sibley Williams

When I received John Sibley Williams’ Skin Memory (University of Nebraska Press, 2019) for review in 2019, I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of awe, of holding in my hands a collection that would not only introduce a range of topics (love, suicide, complicity, family, the longing for something that resembles home) that were lyrically and emotionally engaging, but that would push my way of thinking toward boundaries I never dreamt of crossing. Skin Memory was more than just a book; it was an occasion that made me believe that it was possible for expectations to live up to reality, and as I digested page after page for weeks on end, I began to hunger for more books like it, works that would satiate the emotions I didn’t know I needed to feel before. 

Life always has a way of coming full circle, and when John reached out to me to offer a blurb for his collection Scale Model of a Country at Dawn (Cider Press Review, 2022), I knew there was a purpose to everything. John is also the author of As One Fire Consumes Another (Orison Poetry Prize) and Summon (JuxtaProse Chapbook Prize). His book Sky Burial: New & Selected Poems is forthcoming in translated form by the Portuguese press do lado esquerdo. He serves as editor of The Inflectionist Review and founder of the Caesura Poetry Workshop series.

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Esteban Rodriguez: I had the honor of sitting down with John to discuss his two newest collections, Scale Model of a Country at Dawn and The Drowning House (Elixir Press, 2022), as well as his writing process, the inspiration behind his work, and the power poetry possesses to deal with both the beauty and harshness of the world. 

Thank you for your time, John. Before we dive fully into your latest two collections, The Drowning House and Scale Model of a Country at Dawn, I want to ask about the process of writing these books and their paths to publication. Writing and having a book published is a major accomplishment in and of itself, but having each win two prestigious awards (the Elixir Press Poetry Award and The Cider Press Review Book Award) rises to a whole new level, which must feel amazing to say the least. Where did these collections find their origins and how have you managed the release of two books? 

John Sibley Williams: Thank you so much, Esteban. This new year has certainly been a whirlwind. It’s funny, but I was in the same situation two years ago with two books being released almost simultaneously. In considering how it’s now happened twice, I believe the answer is as simple as it is mundane. I never write toward a particular goal, preferring both poems and collections stem organically from whatever is haunting me at the time. I just write and write, often circling a handful of themes that I cannot shake: history, culture, parenthood, my privilege, self-perception, absence, human contradictions, hurt and healing. After a few years of writing, an internal voice, call it a gut instinct, tells me I have a collection waiting for me to discover it. Then, I print out all poems and begin to organize them by theme and style. And it just so happens that the last two times I’ve been able to compile two complete collections, one that leans more heavily into culture and politics and one that leans more into the personal. So, with two manuscripts ready at the same time, I submitted both to various contests and was lucky and honored to find both land pretty quickly. So, simple and mundane. I just write and write and during the compiling process discern multiple explorations that hopefully complement each other but stand very much on their own.

ER: I was fortunate enough to review one of your previous collections, Skin Memory, a few years back, and I was immediately gripped by such a compelling and consistent voice. This has no doubt carried over in your two recent collections, but they read quite distinctly. One of the fascinating avenues you took with your writing came in The Drowning House and the juxtaposition of two historical and/or mythical characters, such as in “Prometheus // Trayvon Martin,” “Rosa Parks // Banksy,” and “César Estrada Chávez // Robert Frost.” What was the inspiration behind these poems and how do you see them complimenting the entirety of the collection? 

JSW: I love your use of the word “juxtaposition”, as it speaks to my inspiration for that series of poems. I feel most of my work explores contrasts, sometimes outright contradictions, that somehow coexist and, taken together, more fully define our experiences, ourselves. This series really pushes that theme to the forefront. Originally, I didn’t know I’d write more than one. I was flipping through my comprehensive book on Edward Hopper’s work, inventing narratives from his emotionally ambiguous images, and seeing so many white people staring blankly out windows, avoiding eye contact with each other, sitting half-naked on beds, always subtly separated from their own scenes, sparked something in me. What is their story? What is going on in America that they are so distant from the rest of humanity…and themselves? Are they finally coming to terms with something ugly that’s long been simmering beneath the surface? As I began to take notes on how his images and what they could mean in a larger sense, the story of Emmett Till came to mind. I’m not wholly sure why. But suddenly Hopper’s melancholic white people found their context. There’s an awakening going on inside them. They’re finally looking into a mirror they’ve avoided for too long. Like our country. Like our country still. So, I tried to set his images to words and weave them together in a way that the poem is telling multiple stories…that of his painted people and that of those who suffer unseen just down the street from them. After finishing “Emmett Till // Edward Hopper”, I became somewhat obsessed with these kinds of poems, writing nearly ten more, many of which show up in The Drowning House. My hope is that they spark fresh connections with readers, as they did with me, providing new contexts for stories and histories so easily forgotten or rewritten.

ER: At the beginning of the year, I had the privilege of reading with you and Chloe Martinez, and during our discussion at the end, you described a bit of your writing process, detailing how you write on notepads regardless of where you were—weddings, restaurants, waiting for clothes to come out of the dryer. Your writing is always with you, so how much of your personal life makes it on the page? 

JSW: Truly, I feel every poet, perhaps every writer, should always carry around a small notebook with them, at least be prepared to use the Notes app of their phone at a moment’s notice. You never know when a stray thought or interesting image or unexpected metaphor will spring forth, and it would be a shame to lose it. Those seemingly disposable fragments could end up in a poem, perhaps even defining an entire poem. So, yes, I take notes all the time. It’s true, the vast majority of them don’t make it into a final poem. But keeping vigilant for inspiration, keeping that creative perspective constant even in the most mundane of times, is essential. 

As my poems aren’t heavily narrative or experiential, few “facts” from my personal life enter my poems. There’s a difference between “facts” and “truth”, and I feel my role is to question and explore the larger truths I feel, which may or may not be factual. For example, I have written poems that take place in locations I’ve never visited. In some poems, I have a brother; I’m an only child. I end up molding the “facts” of my experiences into a narrative that feels truer to the heart of that experience. That said, a few facts certainly sneak in. Many of my poems explore my children, especially my transgender daughter. Other poems detail their great grandmother’s childhood in a Japanese internment camp. And others focus on my mother’s long-term illness, dementia, and eventual death. But, overall, I’d say my personal life inspires my poems but doesn’t frequently show up in any overt fashion. They become like anything else: threads to weave into a story.

ER: One of the most memorable poems in Scale Model of a Country at Dawn is “Our Pasts, Like Lighthouses,” and for the longest time I couldn’t shake the following lines: 

Finally, 
with history holstered, 
the barrel but lukewarm, 
the fossils of fallen stars 
have a chance to shine 
again, to be dusted off 
& to dust our future 
ancestors. My daughter, 
for example. 
how little her skin 
resembles mine. How 
if this were 1944, she 
and her brother would be 
(dis)placed in Minidoka 
or Manzanar. Harmony.
Harmony; how she loves 
to say the word without 
the weight of context. 

Minidoka, Manzanar, and Harmony (Puyallup Assembly Center) were internment camps for Japanese Americans during World War II. The speaker here is looking at his children realizing the importance of progress and context, as well as the way language can be deceiving generationally. In what ways do you see poetry helping us come to terms with the past, as well as with the present? 

JSW: I’m thrilled to know those lines resonated so strongly with you. They feel deeply personal to me. I remember the first moment my twins—I think they were two at the time—met their great grandmother, who spent much of her childhood in those three camps. I was conflicted by dualing senses of cultural progress and a deepening cultural divide. How much have we really learned from our sins? With families in cages still lining our country’s southern border, with the rise of anti-Asian hate crimes, with the constant bombardment of anti-trans violence…I was left speechless as to what to think. What lessons should I learn from this moment? What has and hasn’t changed? Is all this progress superficial? And what kind of world am I guiding my children into? Will they be safe in it? How much of that is my fault?

I am deeply haunted by these questions. They shape so many of my poems, even in the smallest of ways. I believe all art forms, especially poetry, are the perfect vessels for cultural exploration and healing. We’ve always been a groupthink species: gathering only with the like minded, preaching into echo chambers, misinterpreting or outright rewriting history to match our prejudices, disregarding the opinions and feelings of others. So, how do we change people’s perspectives? How do we open people’s hearts and make them ask themselves essential questions about their own biases? Instead of didactic “journalism” or skewed thought pieces, I feel one of our most genuine and effective methods of cracking the wintered ice of bias is through our creativity. Poetry asks and explores. It leaps and sparks. It demands readers think for themselves, come up with their own conclusions. And in doing so, we can be critical without seeming to be critical. We can make our voices heard by allowing readers the freedom to listen on their own terms. And we deeply, deeply need to come to terms with all the beauty and ugliness of our communal past. That’s why in so many poems I attempt to carry the past into the present and show it for what it is, not what I’d like it to be: a dense web of interconnected glories and mistakes, truths and opinions and lies, that still touch every aspect of our beings…even now.

ER: Are there themes in both The Drowning House and Scale Model of a Country at Dawn that you would like to return to? And if not, what thematic direction would you like to explore in your upcoming work?

JSW: Well, admittedly I do tend to explore the same themes, hopefully in fresh ways, in most of my books, so I assume that trend will continue. I tend to write about what haunts me, often trying to draw connections and contrasts across seemingly disparate subjects, and what haunts me hasn’t changed all that much since writing these two books. I have been writing a bit more than before about my children’s half-Japanese lineage and that side of their family history. And, as one of my twins is transgender and suffers from learning and behavioral disabilities, those themes take up a lot of space in my mind and heart…and pen. I would love to compose an entire collection, perhaps a chapbook, solely about my daughter, her struggles, and the impossibility of truly defining one’s identity, especially in such a tumultuous, dangerous time for people like her. But we’ll see. Whenever I plan to write extensively on one theme, I end up drifting to another haunt, another joy.

ER: TpIn The Drowning House, the ending lines of the last poem “My Heart is in the Mouth of Another Heart” resonate with me deeply, mainly because after writing for the last decade, I couldn’t help but wonder what it will all mean when it comes to an end:

Someday the need to sing will become the song 
  & the song grow into another need. 

Not for blood this time. Not oil. Otherness. 

Among the burning crosses, churches, refineries at dusk, a bridge 
that shouldn’t be there. May we say we see it through the smoke. 

Like forgiveness. All this impossible forgiveness. 

May the dead believe us when we say it. 

How would you like your work to be remembered? How would you like to be remembered? 

JSW: That’s a profound question with no easy answer. Although I’d love to make some grand statement here, I’m under no illusions that I will be remembered as a poet when I’m gone. There are simply so many incredible poets out there, only a handful of whom will likely be read in a generation or two, that I’m trying to come to terms with the fact my name won’t carry far beyond me. Hopefully in the hearts of my children, of course, but not likely the public. And, difficult as it is for me to say it, that’s okay. That’s how it’s meant to be. And I’m sure my work will be the same. Perhaps it’s a bit like life itself: we only have this one go at it, so our hope should be to affect people while we can. I hope my work moves people to question, converse, break, and heal while I am here. Every little bit of good we do is a bit more good in the world. Hopefully my “need to sing will become the song” others carry in their hearts.